


Beauty Compelled

by Eilinelithil



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: A Monthly Rumbelling (Once Upon a Time), Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Historical, Arranged Marriage, Beauty and the Beast Elements, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-19
Updated: 2020-05-19
Packaged: 2021-03-02 20:33:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,473
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24272872
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eilinelithil/pseuds/Eilinelithil
Summary: Years ago, Moe French endebted himself to the nobleman, Mister Gold. Unable to pay the debt by any other means, he promises his daughter, Belle, in marriage to Gold. Now, on the day of her 18th Birthday, the contract is to be honored, and Belle must go to her new home, Adelram Hall, and to meet her husband-to-be, Mister Gold, who has a reputation for darkness.Nominated in the 2021 Espenson Awards for the Best One Shot category.
Relationships: Belle/Rumplestiltskin | Mr. Gold
Comments: 16
Kudos: 66





	Beauty Compelled

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the May Monthly Rumbelling Mood Board.

Such arrangements were supposed to be a thing of the past, so when her eighteenth birthday dawned, brighter and clearer than it had any right to do so, it was with a sense of dread in her belly that she greeted the day.

Since her father’s inauspicious return, so many years ago now that it would have been lost to her memory but for the jewel she wore on the ring finger of her left hand, the day had been a constant specter hanging over her. She had been unable to remove the ring since she had accepted her fate: to give herself to _him_ , or for her father to lose his fortune and suffer the slow decline into destitution and death. Her guilt had driven her to agree, for how could she refuse when it was because of _her_ that her father had trespassed, and incurred a debt which he was unable to repay, all for want of bringing her back a gift.

She sat with her father that morning. The mood was somber on what should have been a day of celebration, as they took tea with barely a word spoken between them. A letter had come that morning, and he slowly slid it across the table to her.

The paper was soft velum, the folds were crisp and sharp. The hand upon the front of the sealed missive was in looping cursive, in a deep red, almost black ink, and the seal on the back was made of heavy wax, and was layered, decorative, though to be decorated with a skull seemed more than a little disturbing.

“Aren’t you going to read it?” he father asked quietly, sounding almost as fearful as she. She took a deep breath, and then hooked her thumbnail beneath the seal, preparing to break it. Then she froze. Words encircled the grotesque image in the center, and she lifted it closer to her face to peer at them.

_We know what we are, but not what we may be._

She frowned as she read them, and a slight shiver went through her, like a warning, or some kind of expectation.

“Belle?” her father prompted.

She shook her head. “Nothing,” she said, and tugged at the seal until it broke from the paper and she could unfold the letter, swallowing hard as she did.

The message was short, and to the point. It read, “ _Miss French, My carriage will call for you at 2pm, and my footman will escort you to your new home._ ” and it was signed with the same flourishing hand as the script on the envelope with a single name. Gold.

She felt her eyes fill with tears and fought not to let them escape as she slid the letter over to her father. She had agreed to this after all.

Her father read silently, then said, “So, he means to go through with it then.”

“Did you doubt that he would?” she remarked rhetorically. Gold had a reputation, after all.

The farewell had not been tearful. She would not allow it to be, and had followed the silent, tall, and gaunt footman to the carriage, and accepted his help to climb inside. The journey was long and taken on unsteady roads which, in spite of the modernity of the conveyance, still jostled her, leaving her as physically rattled as she was emotionally. It was coming on evening when the house came into view, it’s three towers of dark gray stone, loomed beneath the almost-black of the slate roof, one in the center, above the main door, and one either end of the enormous building. The house - almost large enough to be called a castle - stood at the end of a long, sweeping driveway that curved around either side of a well manicured lawn. It stood four storeys tall with many chimneys in the same gray stone, and many arched and dormer windows graced what she could see of the front of the building as the carriage came closer. It was imposing; intimidating.

All too soon the carriage came to a halt with practiced precision directly in front of the main doorway, and the carriage rocked slightly as the footman alighted, and came to hand Belle down and then to escort her inside, through a spacious vestibule and into the large open space that was the main hall dressed in marble, with statues and other artifacts adorning shelves and display cases, and waiting in the hallway was a young lady that could not have been much younger than she herself.

The girl was modestly dressed in a long, dark blue dress, with a white blouse beneath. As Belle was brought to a halt by the footman, the the waiting girl lowered herself in a deep curtsy. Belle swallowed, unused to such genuflection, since it wasn’t required in her father’s household.

“Welcome to Adelram Hall, My Lady,” the girl said. Her quiet voice held the accent of the low country, though it was well refined. “Mister Gold has asked that I attend you, show you to your room and help you get settled.”

Belle smiled at her as the girl rose from the curtsy, and said, “Thank you, and please… I’m no lady. My name is Belle.”

“But, Miss Belle, you’re to be Lady of Adelram hall,” the girl said, sounding perplexed, and Belle supposed she would have to get used to the honorific. It seemed that kind of household. The girl then turned her attention to the footman, still standing beside them, and said quietly, “Thank you, Mister Dove. You can have Miss Belle’s things sent up to her room.”

He gave a wordless bow of his head, and then a lower, more respectful bow to Belle as he turned from them, and left the two women alone.

“Should I show you upstairs, Miss Belle?” the girl asked then. “I could show you the Oak Sitting Room, and then when your things are brought up, I can help you to dress for dinner. Mister Gold has asked that you join him.”

“Of course,” Belle said, and felt a nervous flutter in her belly. She had yet to meet the man to whom she was promised and, if his letter and the house was anything to go by, she could not imagine he would be any less austere. She clasped her hands together to prevent them from trembling, and then said quietly, though she didn’t at all feel it, “I’m ready. Lead the way.”

The Oak Sitting Room was so named because it was entirely paneled in oak wood around the walls. Entry to the room was gained by a double door from the corridor outside, and at either end of the room there were two smaller doorways. Belle wondered where those other door led. Beside one of the two doors was a sizable fireplace, where a low fire burned already against the coming chill of the evening, and nearby the fire, an area carpet in rich browns and reds covered the wood paneled floor on which the rest of the furniture, tables and chairs, and desks for writing at, stood. Over the carpet, however, was a comfortable looking couch and high backed arm chair.

“Should I send for some tea?” the girl asked as Belle came to a stop after visually examining each corner of the room.

“Thank you,” Belle said, turning a smile the girl’s way, “I should like that… and… how should I call you.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, Miss,” the girl said and blushed slightly as she went to the bell pull at the side of the fireplace. “My name is Grace.”

“And do you…” Belle asked carefully, “… work here?”

Grace gave a soft little laugh. “No, Miss Belle, not the way you mean,” she said. “My father is a… business associate of Mister Gold, and his lordship is kind enough to give me a home while my father is away on their shared ventures… which is a often.”

Belle’s breath came out of her in a rush. “Oh, thank goodness,” she said in the midst of that relieved exhalation, “For a moment I thought…”

She shook her head at herself and then grinned at the other young lady, who was also shaking her head. “No,” she confirmed as though she could read Belle’s mind, “Mister Gold just thought you and I might be friends, that’s all. That we might each _like_ to have a friend, and I… well I, for one, certainly should.”

Belle reached out and took hold of both of Grace’s hands and squeezed them tightly in her own. “I should like that too,” she said. “Very much.”

Grace beamed, and without letting go of Belle’s hands, drew her toward the couch, just as a maid entered the room carrying a tea tray, which she brought wordlessly to the coffee table nearby to the couch, setting the tray down first, before bobbing a curtsy.

“Will there be anything else, My Lady? Miss Grace?” she asked softly.

Grace shook her head, and Belle answered, “No, thank you.” The maid curtsied once more, and then withdrew, and Belle groaned softly as she turned to Grace. “I shall never be comfortable with all of this,” she said. “They’re behaving as though I’m royalty.”

“Here, you _are_ ,” said Grace simply. “Mister Gold, _is_ lord and master here, and no matter how close some of us might become to him, it is well to remember that, and since they know you’re to be his wife…”

Belle’s belly clenched again as Grace’s words brought back, starkly, the reason she was hours away from her home, in a strange, grand house, filled with fine things, and people she did not know - though at least Grace was a flicker of light among it all.

Sharing tea with Grace helped to settle her nerves but a little, as Grace told her about her new home, and presently the two young women rose and Grace led her toward the other of the two doors, which led to her chambers, and told her that Mister Gold’s room was at the opposite end of the sitting room, by the fireplace. The thought took the ends of the knot in her belly and pulled it a little tighter.

Her room was opulent, with a large canopied bed with drapes of red and gold. In fact the entire room was decorated in the glorious color of sunlight, the floor length curtains at the three bay windows were a golden yellow with the same red and gold color valances as the bedspread and canopy. Even the skirts around her vanity matched the curtains and bed-skirts, the entire room was so well coordinated. Belle imagined that the morning sun would make the room light and airy indeed.

For the moment though, the curtains had been closed, and a fire lit in the hearth to warm the room for when Belle would eventually return to it, her trunks had been unpacked, and a black evening dress hung up for her to wear to dinner. She supposed she _would_ have servants after all.

As though Grace was once again reading her mind, the girl chuckled and said, “You didn’t imagine Mister Gold would let you do everything all by yourself, did you?”

It seemed to Belle to take an age to prepare for dinner, and Grace fussed endlessly at her hair to have it fall just _right_ about her shoulders, but just as she feared the younger woman would make her late to dinner, Grace declared her ready, and prepared to lead her downstairs to present her to her intended.

“You’ll dine in the Breakfast Room,” Grace told her in a half whisper as they began to descend the stairs. “Mister Gold thought it would be more intimate for the two of you.”

“You’re not joining us?” Belle asked, feeling a sudden rush of panic tighten her belly, and Grace chuckled.

“Of course not,” she said, “There will be plenty of staff to see propriety maintained, and besides, you don’t want me twittering on when you meet him for the first time.” She leaned closer as if she were about to impart a huge secret and whispered, “I think you’ll like him. He’s not at all as fearsome as people think. You’ll see.”

Before Belle could answer they had reached the bottom of the stairs, and began walking toward a room from which she began to hear the sound of chamber music. Grace suddenly grasped her hand excitedly, and Belle started. Her nerves already frayed.

“Oh, he is playing the gramophone,” she said excitedly, “You are in for rare a treat!”

Belle blinked. She had heard of a gramophone of course, but her own family were far too old fashioned to have possessed such a thing, and she wondered at what it would be like to hear it properly instead of from a distance. Her silent question was soon answered, when they reached the doorway to what looked like a Salon, where electric lighting - also a commodity that was not so familiar to Belle, at least not in her father’s home - had been switched on, and the warmth of a fire in the hearth reached out to caress away the chills of the stone corridors and the staircase down which she and Grace had come.

As they entered, a man whom she presumed to be Mister Gold, came to his feet, and swiftly buttoned the front of his dress suit jacket as he turned to the ladies. Grace did not wait for the two of them to meet formally, and for the moment Belle was glad of that. The younger woman simply bobbed barely a curtsy and then almost rushed across the room to greet Mister Gold, standing on her tiptoes to brush a kiss to his cheek.

“Miss Grace.” Belle watched, the frantic beating of her heart subsiding just a little as he indulged Grace with a smile. “Are you certain you won’t join us for dinner? I can easily have Stiers set another place.”

“And get in your way?” Grace teased softly, “Absolutely not. I’ve already arranged with Mister Stiers, and Miss Bernadette to allow me to share supper with them.”

Gold made no comment on this, merely raised an eyebrow, and as if remembering something, released Grace’s arm, which he had been lightly supporting, and walked to the sideboard to retrieve a folded letter.

“A letter from your father came for you today,” he told her, offering it to her.

She took it with a smile, and threw what looked to Belle to be an impulsive hug around Gold’s chest, with a heartfelt, “Thank you,” and then pulled back, clutching the letter to her chest and withdrew almost at a run toward the door through which they’d entered, catching a hold of Belle for a moment and turning her around, almost full circle as she hugged her too. “Enjoy your dinner, Miss Belle,” she murmured as she did, and then was gone leaving Belle standing almost with her back to Mister Gold.

“She’s quite the force of nature, is she not?” Gold’s voice washed over her, like a rolling wave, deep and with a fondness that belied his upright appearance. At his words though, Belle turned, back to him in time to see him picking something up from atop an untidy fall of papers on his desk, before he approached her, carrying it in his hands.

He came to a halt barely a step or two away, and held out a single red rose toward her.

“If you’ll have it,” he said quietly.

She smiled shyly, and reached out to take it from him, thanking him softly, before she realized she had not shown him the proper respect, and dipped into a deep and graceful curtsy. As she rose, it was to find that he returned her a low and equally respectful bow. She found herself surprised and it must have shown in her face, because he tilted his head a look of query in his eyes.

When she shook her head, uncertain what to say, nor trusting in herself to say… whatever it might have been with a steady voice, he chuckled and nodded, even as he held out his hand to her.

“Ah,” he said knowingly. “My reputation.”

She blushed more fiercely, and set her hand into his, allowing him to lead her across the room, closer to the fireplace.

“I didn’t mean…” she stammered, faltering as he shook his head again.

“No matter.” His voice was gentle, calm and almost without inflection, but when she looked up she saw a flash of pain and anger move across his eyes, as he said, “In my position I suppose it is only to be expected.”

“Your position, Mister Gold?” she asked, frowning as they came to a stop before the warmth of the fire.

“As the Lord of this Estate,” he answered, “And the lands beyond it, I’m certain there are all kinds of unsavory rumors spread about.”

“Oh,” she said, “Oh, I don’t think—”

“Am I unreasonable?” It took her a moment to realize he was not asking the question of her, but of the rumors themselves. “No, I simply expect that my tenant farmers and laborers honor the terms of our agreements, and pay their dues on time. Everything has its price, Miss French.”

She swallowed hard, tugging her hand from his, the tone in his voice sending tendrils of ice through her blood. The rumors she’d heard said that, yes; that he was a hard, but fair task master, but there were other, darker rumors; rumors of a stranger nature, that hinted on the hidden, the occult, to use the vernacular - dark magic.

“I understand entirely, Sir,” she said.

Her words seem to waken him from his tirade, his momentary lapse of propriety, and he closed his eyes for a heartbeat before offering her a soft, sad, smile.

“Forgive me, Miss French,” he craved quietly, and after a moment or two added, “I don’t know what kind of tales you’ve heard told about me, but as you have entered into our arrangement in good faith, and though we shall be wed, as our contract agrees, I promise you, my dear, that I shall command of you, nothing, and no moment, to which you do not consent.”

She swallowed hard, blinking at him owlishly, a fierce blush rising in her cheeks and she studied him. Rumors also spoke of him as disagreeable in form, a beast with no mercy, and yet, he had shown her nothing but gallantry and kindness since her arrival, and - her blush deepened - she certainly did not find his appearance in any way offensive. Quite the contrary, in fact. His high cheek bones, his long hair and full lips, and the depth of his eyes, their deep crystalline brown, like dark amber, drew her in; made her _want_ to be in his presence… get to know him…

“Do you understand?”

At his softly spoken question, she realized she had made no comment on his promise, and it would be expected that she should say something.

“I,” she began, unsure of how to proceed, “thank you, that is most noble of you.”

“Hardly noble,” he said, his voice dry with cynicism, “I would simply prefer you to be happy here.”

He held out his hand again then, toward her left, the one that bore his ring, and without a thought to objection she placed her chilled fingers into the warmth of his palm.

“You are free here,” he told her softly, “to come and go as you please, so long as it is safe for you to do so and you go accompanied, either by Grace, or by one of the footmen if it is outside of the grounds.”

“I understand,” she said quietly, but inside her heart was pounding. Here was a man to whom she had expected to lose all of her free will, who was offering her a freedom that she had not even enjoyed in her father’s home.

“When I entertain guests,” he went on, “I would hope that you would attend our gatherings at my side as my wife should.”

“Yes,” she agreed readily, it was only fair, and why would she _not_ want to attend such balls and soirees as she had heard were held at Adelram Hall?

“You will oversee the household management, and provisioning of our needs, as would be expected of the Lady of Adelram Hall,” he said, and again, it was no less than she had expected, and had been schooled for as the daughter of a landowner after all.

“Got it,” she confirmed.

“Oh,” he added, as though he had just remembered something very important, his face a mask of seriousness. “And once a month, when the moon is at its peak, you will accompany me to the basement to participate in my rites of dark magic.”

She gasped audibly then and pulled away from him so suddenly that she stumbled backwards into a round table by the hearth, dislodging a china tea cup, finely decorated with pale blue flowers, sending it tumbling to the Persian rug on which the table stood.

The color drained from her, and she felt a band of panic tighten around her chest, both at his words, and for fear of the damage she had done to the tea service, and stared at him in something approaching horror, only then noticing the slight twinkle in his deep brown eyes.

“That one was a quip,” he told her, “Not serious.”

She breathed out a nervous laugh and a whispered, “Right,” before she bent down to pick up the cup, biting her lip as she noticed the chip in the rim of the cup.

“Oh, my…” she said as she lifted the cup from the rug and began to hold it up for him to see. “I’m so sorry. It’s… it’s chipped. You can hardly see it…”

He approached her slowly, carefully, as though approaching a fearful deer whom he thought might bolt, lifting the cup from her fingers and cradling it for a moment.

“It’s just a cup,” he told her softly, as though confused, or somehow testing her.

“You’re… making fun of me,” she accused softly, as he set the cup back on the tray. He turned back to her then.

“Making fun, yes,” he said, “but not of you. Never of you. Simply mocking the rumors that I’m sure you’ve heard. I too have heard the things they say. That I’m a beast; A monster that revels in dark magic.”

“I’m so… sorry,” she said as she noticed that flash of that pain again, but then like a summer shower it was gone once more, and he shook his head, smiling.

“No, the apology is mine, my lady,” he took her hand, and she gladly allowed it, “Can you ever forgive me?”

“Of course,” she said, offering a smile of her own. “No man should have to endure to have such blatant stains cast upon his character, especially as untrue as they are.”

He gave her bow over their joined hands, and asked, “May I?” She nodded briefly, and he tenderly raised the back of her hand to his lips, to brush her skin with a soft, warm kiss that tingled over the whole of her, following the path of nerves through her body, like lightning seeking to ground.

She shivered and blushed anew as he slowly released her hand.

“Dinner will be a while,” he told her with regret. “I thought we might enjoy some music while we wait.”

“I should like that,” she answered, with a genuine smile. “Grace seemed quite taken with your gramophone.”

He chuckled then as he began to search for a record from the stack beside the player.

“Her father brought it to me,” he said quietly. “It is a treasured gift - for both of us,” he straightened up then, a disk in his hands, held carefully by the edge, and added with a smile, “For you too, I’d hope. A little Chopin, I think.”

She returned the smile, and nodded her accord, not so very well versed in the music of the classical composers to be able to recognize many, but not so ignorant either. Chopin was a favorite of hers. She couldn’t help but wonder if he somehow knew.

She closed her eyes for a moment, listening to the gentle strains of _Raindrops Prelude_ , letting the piano sounds wash over her, until she felt a sudden heat prickle at her and wondering at it, opened her eyes to find him watching her, a quiet half smile on his face.

“Would you care to dance, Miss French?” he asked.

“Oh, I…” she began, about to refuse, but then, something inside her unfurled a little at the look of supplication on his face, and stepping toward him even before she knew what she was doing, she said, “I should like that.”

As she reached him he offered a low bow, and she responded in kind, a curtsy from which he raised her, lightly taking her into his arms, and beginning to turn with her about the open space in the Salon.

At first her hand trembled a little on his shoulder, and where their hands met she felt as if a tingling passed between them, only softly, but it made a strange feeling fizzle in her lungs, a tenderness and excitement that she would never have expected to feel from a stranger - and stranger he was, for all that he would be her husband.

Their movements matched the gentle nature of the music, the light piano tones guiding their steps, and she followed him with ease, and with delight. Then the music darkened, moving to a minor key with many crescendos. He tugged her closer, and she held fast to him. The gentle fizzle becoming an ache, a need to be subsumed by the music, by the man that held her, turned with her, pressed her close to move as one, his thighs parting hers to step, to move around the spaciousness of the room that yet did not feel large enough to contain them, and she became lost in him.

And then…

As if a dream, the power and energy that had possessed her, possessed them both, faded as the music turned again, to fall over them as the gentle patter of rain, washing them both clean, bathing them, blessing them together, and they came slowly to a stop, she breathless, and he…

“I rather fear I forgot myself,” he said, barely above a whisper. “Forgive me.”

“Nothing to forgive,” she whispered in return, and pressed a hand to his chest to feel his heart beat strong, fast, but slowing against her fingers.


End file.
